


But Don’t Get The Wrong Idea

by Imagining_Fantasy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Humor, Jousting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period Typical Attitudes, Secret Relationship, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagining_Fantasy/pseuds/Imagining_Fantasy
Summary: Patrick is a prince caught in the crosshairs of war and society. He must choose between fighting or fleeing. And soon.Pete is desperately lost. Any home he’s ever known has been ripped away and burned in front of his eyes.They’re going to need each other in order to survive.





	But Don’t Get The Wrong Idea

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve basically poured all of my creative energy into this fic, and I’m so excited to bring it to the world. I cannot explain the countless hours I’ve spent doing historical research that is absolutely, completely unnecessary. But hey, it made me happy so I hope it makes someone out there happy haha. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! The second part will be up as soon as possible :)

 

Bickering shouts built upon one another like mortar, culminating into a heat of enraged tension. The castle guards were sure to be skittishly shifting outside the doors as they listened to the family who was expected to be composed tear each other to pieces.

 

"No! This is complete woodness!" he shouted, pacing the throne room so quickly that the floor was going to have scorch marks on it soon "How _dare_ you do this without my permiss-"

 

"Without _your_ permission?" his father hissed, rising up from his throne, eyes narrowed in a deathly glare. "I am your king! And, most importantly, your father. You have no say in this matter."

 

"But I should!" he protested, argument growing weaker by the minute. "It is not proper to marry off your child without first consulting them!”

 

"I will not have this family embarrassed because of your- your unorthodox ideals! Women have had marriages arranged for them as long as this family has possessed the throne! What you are proposing is preposterous, Mary. Even you must see that."

 

A horrible pang struck his chest. His clenched hands trembled and breath seized.

 

The king stared him down, expression as unyielding as his will. Patrick had postponed and battled this day for years, denying the merciless reality of his predicament. Heretofore, his father had held his tongue and complied, avoided betrothing his youngest child off, despite the hostile kingdoms surrounding them and the precarious war looming on the horizon- now peril outweighed his father's affections. He would be betrothed to an unloving, unknown man.

 

Since he was a bright-eyed child roaming the castle grounds, Patrick was aware that something was dreadfully wrong with him. The beautiful gowns presented to him by handmaids and servants caused him to dash away and hide fearfully behind the stables. The titled name presented to him at birth, under the watchful eyes of God, was foreign to his soul and mind.

 

Deviously, he had formulated a childish game which consisted of him running away from his responsibilities in the castle. Time spent avoiding the servants and groundskeepers was often instead with the serf child named Andrew; he was soft-spoken and had a furious shock of red hair. Andrew's family was from Leinster in Ireland. Patrick once overheard the tale of their retreat to Northumbria when the Norse raids had become too cumbersome to bear. Patrick considered Andrew far more of a brother to him than any of his blood siblings. As the pair matured, Andrew was pressured into agrarian tasks by his Lord, and Patrick began his domestic training, greatly diminishing the their time together.

 

The night that he confessed his horrid truth under their sagging willow tree outside the castle grounds, he had begged, pleaded, and sobbed into the ginger's shoulder, praying the man would not discard him where he stood. Andrew had offered hesitant words of comfort and acceptance, which were unknown to the confused young boy.

 

He only wished his father had reacted so warmly.

 

"That name is no longer in my possession," Patrick said as gallantly as he could. "You may not hold my freedom in high esteem, but I ask that you bestow me some dignity."

 

The king heaved a sigh, hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. Grief rolled off the man in waves- grief for a child that could not simply comply and grief for precious time spent on something so futile. "Is this how you will treat your future husband? With delusions of grandeur and false sentiments? I should have consigned you to a priest long ago, but I refused in order to maintain this family's honor. Imagine the unrest of the vassals if they discovered their lords behaving so improperly.”

 

Patrick bristled. "What is _improper_ is-"

 

"Enough!" the king boomed, stepping down from the elevated platform and leaning into Patrick's space. "I have given you a generous arrangement, have I not?"

 

Patrick dropped his gaze to the floor, heartbeat pounding within the confines of his head. He merely responded with a meager nod, painstakingly aware of how volatile his loathsome voice would be if he uttered a singular word.

 

"You have my sympathies," his father said, “but you do not have immunity from your responsibilities, and you will not render this kingdom vulnerable with your childish whims. There is not a soul who feels pity for someone as fortunate as you. You will conduct yourself as a proper princess should. Requiring your husband to comply with these terms would not only jeopardize us- it would be an act of treason. There are armies marching for our borders, seeking to take our freedom and enslave our people, and this marriage is _required_ to keep them at bay."

 

"Would it be so shameful as to allow me to select my own betrothed?" Patrick whispered, eyes heating with unshed tears.

 

"Where in God’s name do you acquire these fancies? Did you not perceive a word I just spoke?" the king asked, stunned, as if this was the first time he’d ever been argued against.

 

It probably was.

 

"It is not a choice, father." Patrick balled the fabric of his tunic, twisting the coarse material. "They bubble up from within my spirit and evolve into  consuming thoughts. I do not wish for them; I pray every night that they would fade, but it only strengthens their resolve." He exhaled, breath escaping in stuttered increments. "Perhaps I was cursed."

 

"Cursed or not, you must overcome these demons; it is the burden we bear as sovereign. The event will commence in two days. You _will_ be composed and you _will_ _not_ bring about any altercations." His father smoothed his jeweled robe and unbent. "You are fortunate the event is so lax. Your mother would have wanted me to only allow princes to compete.”

 

"As if a prince would compete himself and not throw a knight forward instead," he drawled. His father delivered him a pointed look. "Your Grace," Patrick added.

 

The king huffed again, mouth twitching. "I will have you informed that anyone may participate, so long as they are not of serfdom. The blood in this family must carry on; you are fortunate you are the youngest of kin and may be allocated laxity regarding the selection of your betrothed."

 

"I do not regard a battle as a choice," he murmured.

 

"I am exhausted of your laments. This will play out as foretold, regardless of your will. Return to your quarters and rest, Mary. Our guests will arrive at dawn; I will request for you to be present at the bailey when they do so. Your handmaiden will acquire you proper dress."

 

"Yes, father." He bowed his head and proceeded to the door. "One last thing," he stood precariously in the doorway, "my name is Patrick."

 

Before the king could rebuke, Patrick slammed the door shut, snickering at the stunned expressions of the chamber guards. They shifted uneasily, tossing confused signals amongst themselves, but the head guard simply nodded for Patrick to go about his business. During the journey to his chambers, the corridors had never felt quite so mournful.

 

\-----------------

 

A knock on his chamber door awoke him from restless sleep.

 

The ceiling had taunted him for the entirety of the night, whispering mindless anxieties and prophecies of sorrow. When the bell rang for the end of the first sleep, he had already kneeled over on the floor in prayer, repeating his pleas until they were meaningless noises upon his tongue. The majority of the second sleep was restless as well. By the hour he had drifted asleep, the sun was already a sliver over the horizon.

 

He launched out of his bed and scrambled to grab a tunic to cover his person, recalling how unseemly it would appear sleeping without a nightshirt. The summer months of Northumbria burned hotter than a kiln, and the dry night air boiled his brain if he did not uncover himself to a degree.

 

“Are you decent, Your Highness?” a handmaiden asked, tentative.

 

“Uh, yes. Yes.” He jumbled the coverings for his bed into a semi-acceptable heap. “You may come in.”

 

A dark-haired woman entered the room and Patrick started. It was his younger sister, Megan. They had not exchanged words in a year - since Patrick imprudently discussed his predicament with his siblings. It was shocking his father did not order them to recuse themselves.

 

“Megan?” he questioned, eyebrows raising. “What are you-”

 

“Hush, brother,” she said, coming up to him and placing her delicate hands on his shoulders. A beat later, he realized the term that she had used to address him and his heart expanded. “I came as swiftly as I could. I feared you would be entangled in greetings and formalities for the time being, and then be whisked away the moment your betrothed was selected.”

 

He had seen that happen before. A woman would affirm her wedding vows one moment, and the next, her husband is a brute, cruel to any man or even family members who dared to speak to his wife. She became a voiceless silhouette in the household, only serving to agree with her spouse or give birth to his children. This had occurred to his departed mother, his sister, and countless other friends.

 

His fate would inevitably traverse that path.

 

“I ponder that as well,” Patrick murmured. He exhaled, searching his sister’s eyes for the meaning behind her sudden support. “Although, that cannot possibly be your only reason for being here.”

 

“No.” Megan shook her head, biting her lower lip. “I was directed here by Andrew after he sent me a letter. I had our brother read it to me. Andrew picked up word of the betrothment and began plotting immediately.”

 

“A _plot_? What in God’s name could he- could the pair of you accomplish?”

 

“Not much, but enough. You of all people should know not to underestimate Andrew.” Megan moved her hand behind his ear to touch his blonde locks that extended down to his shoulders. “How fond are you of this hairstyle?”

 

“By no means,” he said. “I would be happier with no hair at all than this ridiculous amount.”

 

She chuckled. “Then we shall amend that.”

 

“Our father warned me not to injure this marriage,” Patrick said, taking note of his fluttering heartbeat. “Whatever it is you are doing, I plead you to take the delicacy of my position into consideration.”

 

“Oh, Ma-” Megan began then halted her speech, considering. “My apologies. What, uh, what would you-”

 

“Patrick.”

 

Because of Saint Patrick.

 

Similar to most attributes about him, the name derived from his childhood. In his youth, once a year, Andrew would escape his sleeping quarters after the first sleep and then dash to the palace to shake Patrick awake. They dashed to the forest, far outside the castle walls, where their sacred willow tree stood. Andrew would beautifully tell the stories of Saint Patrick until his gentle voice wore to silence. In a foreign land, Andrew’s stories were all that kept himself grounded. What he did not know was that they grounded Patrick as well.

 

Patrick remembered learning about the boy who was kidnapped by raiders and found hope in God for six long years. Every time his friend described the Saint receiving God’s command to go to the beach where a ship would be his salvation, his voice would waver, and Patrick would patiently wait for Andrew to compose himself and continue.

 

Patrick longed for that day every night, if only to hear his name be uttered by someone he cared for. It had been years since Andrew departed, but henceforth on that day, Patrick went to the creek alone and told the stories to the grasses, trees, and skies.

 

Megan’s soft voice pulled him from memory.

 

“Excuse me, Patrick,” she smiled, gaze tender. “Andrew simply aspired help you make peace with your physical state before entering a marital one. He tried to travel here personally- unfortunately he will not arrive until tomorrow, when the tournament commences.”

 

An uncontrollable smile emerged out of Patrick’s face. He was torn between intense elation and sentiment. He was quite certain his heart would burst forth from his chest. His childhood friend had garnered enough thought to contact his complacent, distant sister and attempt to alleviate some of his deep-seated pain. The constant loneliness of self-inflicted isolation had never been so weak.

 

Megan revealed a pair of shears from within her satchel. She held them up for him to inspect and clicked them together twice. “I suppose my domestic trainings were not completely fruitless.” She paused, taking in his apprehensive twitching. “Have you any requests?”

 

“None enter my mind.” Patrick shrugged, face rapidly heating. “I only wish for my... effeminate appearance to be hidden.”

 

Visions sprung into his mind of possible suitors sneering at him, muttering amongst themselves the sacrifice they were about to make in order to be indoctrinated into the royal family. But Patrick’s physical appeal was never going to be a factor for those men; they wished for nothing but influence. He would likely suffer for this act later.

 

“That I can manage,” Megan said. “You will appear the strongest of warriors, be my abilities adept.

 

He exhaled and gave his sibling a tense nod before training his gaze on the floor. Solaced tears slipped down his rosy cheeks as Megan snipped away the demons inside his head.

 

\-----------------

 

Megan and Patrick briskly walked a hidden corridor they had both made use of during their rebellious youths. A handmaiden entered his chambers with a gown, but Megan simply shook her head at it and sent the servant away. She declared he deserved a quality tunic. Her dedication to Andrew’s quest was admirable, and Patrick’s respect for her garnered by the minute.

 

They entered the weaver’s quarters, filled with dizzying spinning wheels and various cuts of cloth and furs. The weaver - Rían, or in Northumbrian terms, Ryan - flew around the shoppe with a panic reserved only for large events. With so many wealthy patrons flooding into the castle and the surrounding grounds, Ryan was undoubtedly preparing his most lavish clothing for sale.  

 

The moment the royals stepped into the shoppe, the weaver disregarded everything in his hands and practically scrambled over to them, strips of linen and silk falling to the floor. “Your Highnesses.” Ryan bowed, long hair falling in front of his face in a waterfall. “What can I do for you this day?”

 

Megan glanced over at Patrick then trained her eyes on the groveling man. “Would you please display to us the finest tunics, trousers, and cloaks in your possession? We require them for the oncoming wedding ceremony.”

 

“Ah,” Ryan unbent, face bright with interest, “wonderful! And for whom will these garments be for?”

 

“The prince,” Megan said, tone confident. He once again felt his face flush a deep shade of red and trained his eyes on the ground.

 

It was a foolproof deception- his sister was shrewd. Patrick’s brother, Kevin, was off in Kent performing diplomatic affairs, but none of the commoners knew that. The business of the royals was solemnly public knowledge, and Megan took advantage of that. She was far more intelligent than Patrick ever gave her credit for.

 

“Of course, of course.” Ryan nodded with enthusiasm, hands spreading. “If you would simply allow me a moment to gather my things.”

 

The weaver disappeared into the back room of the shoppe, ducking underneath a low foundation beam. His sister nudged his shoulder, mischief gleaming in her eyes like it had not in years. When Ryan emerged again, his arms were loaded with fabrics and intricate embroideries. Many of them were a pristine purple, something reserved only for the highest of society. Megan plucked out the items she deemed contemporary, dropped a large handful of pennies into the weaver’s hand. Eyes as wide as dinner plates, Ryan stared down at the currency; it was likely the largest sum of coins he had ever held.

 

“Thank you,” Patrick whispered under his breath so only his sister could hear.

 

If Megan had any doubts, it was unbeknownst to him. The determination within her behavior did not falter for a moment. Her strides were long and confident, chin and nose held high. For years, Patrick had only seen a closed off woman who was petrified of her husband and her responsibilities. On particularly quiet nights, echoes of muffled sobs sometimes reached his chambers through the open window. Perhaps this quest for internal peace was not just for him.

 

Megan urged him to clothe with speed before shoving him into his room. The bell to call them down to the courtyard would ring at any moment. If one of the royals showed up late to greet the kings, nobles, and knights, it would be a large controversy. He slipped into the finely-woven tunic and wrapped the luxurious violet cloak around his shoulders, hooking together the clasp at the front. While exiting his quarters, he caught his reflection in his mirror by the door and started. He looked… _right_.

 

That was the only accurate word. Patrick was not nearly confident nor vain enough to call himself dashing or handsome, but he found his chest swelling with unbridled pride.

 

“Patrick, we must go,” Megan called from behind the door. “The last of the guests are arriving and our father is growing restless. They are moving to the dining hall to begin feasting.”

 

“Yes, yes,” he said, pushing open the door and threading a hand through his shortened locks. “Let us go.”

 

Megan’s mouth fell open and Patrick’s breathing stopped. He feared that he looked unnatural and bizzare, but then a slow smile spread across her lips. “You look absolutely elegant, brother. If it were not for your betrothment, I have many friends who would battle for your hand.”

 

“Oh, please,” he chuckled as they began their walk to the dining hall. “Nevertheless, thank you for- for everything, really. This short time with you has been indescribably amazing. I have seen a glimpse of inner peace. I will never be able to repay you.”

 

“Nonsense,” Megan said. “I feel as if I did my duty, as a child of God, to protect all of His creations. My prayers will no longer be filled with ludicrous self-pity and hopeless cries, but rather gratitude for your strength.”

 

He gave a curt nod. The king’s temper was robust, and his attire would likely provoke it. It was improbable for the king to become infuriated amongst the guests, but if the setting was right, his father could become an enraged beast.

 

Patrick turned to his sister. “What will I do when our father sees me? It will be a complete embarrassment.”

 

“Leave it to me,” Megan said, a single eyebrow raising. “I will inform father that you have fallen quite ill, and that you must have a day to recover before your husband is chosen. The summer months spread diseases quickly, as you know. And, after all, you must only give consent to marry, not to be betrothed. I am certain no suitors will be deterred.”

 

“I understand making me feel content right now,” he said, “but I am sure this could have been done after the betrothment.”

 

“If you think Andrew simple-minded, then you are sorely mistaken,” Megan laughed. “He is helping you meet your suitors as a third party. Nobody is genuine when facing the object of their desires, so this will fix that. Nothing done tonight with affect the result of tomorrow, so there will be no consequences. And perhaps you will be aware of who your betrothed is underneath all this formality. Whomever is victorious tomorrow, you will probably meet tonight.”

 

It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. It made perfect sense.

 

Meeting his suitors and the nobles as a man, not seemingly a princess, would allow for him to see the full picture. There would be no boot-licking from the conniving princes, spoiled nobles, or brash knights. He could practically imagine Andrew laughing behind the backs of the oblivious people who rule him.

 

They locked eyes one last time then entered the dining hall.

 

Patrick was immediately struck by the immense size of the gathering. Dozens of well-dressed and prestigious people flitted around the room, procuring hors d'oeuvres and chatting with strangers from other lands.

 

His mind drifted back to his sister’s wedding and recollected that there was certainly more diversity at hers. Groups he had previously seen toting flags with their own nationalities, were now merged with the largest body- the conquerors from the southern kingdom of Wessex.

 

There were several large banners draped from the walls, the most significant being the Kingdom of England. It was apparently the new name for that allegiance from Wessex. The most powerful man in all the lands, king of the English, King Eadred, stood surrounded by Welsh monks and many knights.

 

His stomach twisted at the thought of that jarringly young man - who he was certain was not married - being the subject of his betrothal. It was a logical choice, after all. Eadred had the strongest forces in all of England, and had the blood of Athelstan coursing through his veins.

 

He prayed to God and every Saint that it would not be that man. Marrying him would eradicate the slim chance he had of finding someone enjoyable and who did not require him to maintain public appearances. It was then that he realized just how in over his head he was. Drowning would be safer.

 

Suddenly, a curly haired man with blue eyes and a heavy Welsh accent pushed past him with multiple mugs of beer clasped in his hands. Patrick stumbled back and nearly knocked over a passing handmaid. The man kept moving but shot out a quick apology, “Mae’n ddrwg gen i!”

 

“No bother, really.” Patrick shrugged and righted himself, blinking when he realized it was odd to respond to Welsh in a different language.

 

The Welshman froze in his tracks, then slowly turned back toward him, eyes stunned wide. The man opened and closed his mouth several times, at a loss for words. Well, maybe at a loss for Northumbrian words, at least. This was a long way from Wales.

 

It had been a frequent hobby of his to request texts from all lands and teach himself their dialect. They were difficult to come by, but just one book could teach volumes. He decided long ago that if his family did not understand his perspective, _he_ would give the courtesy to foreigners, who simply wanted to be understood. He was not fluent in any regard, but it was enough to understand basic phrases.

 

“W-Would chi ddod a drink with, uh, us?” the Welshman said, switching between his mother tongue and broken Northumbrian.

 

Patrick grinned. “That would be splendid, thank you.”

 

“Rhyfeddol.” The Welshman wrapped an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and led him to one of the broad wooden dining tables. He immediately began to chatter on about the journey to Northumbria and how he loathed travelling all this way to “defend prissy, _stupid_ nobles.” Patrick snickered rather obnoxiously, and because of that, the Welshman declared he was permitted to sit at their table.

 

“What is your name?” Patrick asked. After the man stared blankly at him for two seconds, he gestured to himself and said “Patrick” to exemplify.

 

“Ah!” the man barked out a laugh, face lighting up again. “I understand. I am Joseff.”

 

The thick, Welsh pronunciation of the name caused the man’s “J” to transform into a sharp “Sh,” and his “f” fluttered from his mouth. There was no way Patrick could even attempt it without mispronouncing it. But still, it would be rude to stay silent.

 

“Uh, Joseph?” he tried.

 

Horrendous. The Northumbrian translation of the Welshman’s name paled in comparison to the smooth, strong vowels of the original. It felt like he had just spat a bitter insult.

 

“Na, _Joseff_.” The man gestured for him to try again, sounding out the impossible word at a snail’s pace.

 

“Joe- uh, Jo-”

 

“Agh! _Beth_ _bynnag_ ,” Joseff groaned, waving an indifferent hand in Patrick’s direction. “Just say Joe. My ears bleed.”

 

“If you say so,” Patrick affirmed, remorseful. But his guilt was quickly erased by the Joe’s carefree grin.

 

The table Joe had been toting beers to comprised of a handful of knights, a disinterested monk, and a robed noble with his head lying on the wood surface, unconscious. Patrick’s nerves were instantly soothed by the band of misfits; he would be safe here. Eccentric people were always so concerned about sticking out themselves, that they embraced anyone who came their way.

 

He much preferred this crowd than his family or local lords- they were too self-assured, too headstrong. Those who are too comfortable with themselves are uncomfortable with those who are not. That put a large target on his head.

 

He took a seat on the heavy bench, hands fiddling. Should he have brought something? A drink? A plate of food? God, that time spent daydreaming while his tutors taught him etiquette was definitely a mistake.

 

“Joseff!” barked one of the Englishmen in a distinct Kent accent. “What took you so long? Busy exchanging words with every handmaiden you come across?”

 

“Nah.” Joe shrugged, a wry grin working its way onto his face. “Doing your budr- erm, dirty work.”

 

The blond man eyed Patrick up and down, lip curled, then pointed to him. “And who is this rich _skamelar_?”

 

Along with the slur, a pit opened in his stomach. His aspirations already tumbled down into it. His hands shook with fury and fear. If that man had already seen underneath his guise, Patrick would be in grave danger. The other two knights at the table fell silent, the one with warm skin, a stern resting face, and sheathed swords at his belt frowning deeply.

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes, trying to appear more angry than hurt. “I beg your pardon?”

 

Joe’s smile fell. The Welshman crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, intensely glaring at the brash blond. “That is very not kind. You should go.”

 

Patrick raised his eyebrows, stunned by his newfound friend’s loyalty. Everything he was taught would make him drop his eyes to the table and submit, but his heart ordered him to not back down. The weaponed knight began shifting ever so slightly- his right hand drifted toward one of his swords. Patrick swallowed, praying he was not the intended target.

 

“Oh, _I_ should leave?” the man repeated, hands clenching dangerously.

 

“Yes,” Joe said firmly.

 

The angered man rose to his feet, mouth set in a sneer, and before Patrick could lean back, he grabbed the collar of his cloak, yanking Patrick up. He was not a tall man, so he was easily held a foot off the ground. A hand clasped around his neck.

 

Being choked was like being in the eye of a storm. His body flailed and pushed weakly to try and escape, rushing to survive- his mind was perfectly still. Absolutely still.

 

A choked sound escaped his throat once the air in his lungs began to run out. Bright stars danced in his eyes. His heart jumped to the insides of his ears, pounding incessantly. Distantly, he heard commotion and yells from both Joe and the dark haired knight.

 

He wondered if he would die right in front of the most powerful people in the world.

 

Suddenly he was back on the ground, heaving breaths. He quickly pressed a hand to his neck, protecting where he had just been strangled.

 

He dizzily looked up. Joe was shoving the man away, screaming filthy insults in Welsh that would make a sailor blush. The guests did not take much notice of the commotion- disputes between temperamental, drunk knights were not rare.

 

An open hand entered his vision, and once his blurry vision cleared he realized it was the dark haired knight from earlier. He had a hesitant, half-smile and the most soulful eyes Patrick had ever seen.

 

“A-Are you alright?” the man asked. His accent was significantly heavy- every “r” rolled off his tongue effortlessly. It was so foreign and exotic to Patrick’s ears; he almost considered if the man was Norse. “I’m so sorry about that.”

 

He accepted the offered hand and was pulled to his feet, noting how secure the man’s grip was. “I will- I will be just fine, thank you.”

 

“There’s no need to thank me,” the man said, leaning in close as if to tell a dark secret. “Between us, I wanted that idiot gone since the beginning. You just gave me the opportunity. He’s a scunner.”

 

“Did you attack him?” Patrick asked, looking at the man’s swords. One of them was slightly unsheathed and askew.

 

“As much as I would’ve enjoyed that, Eòsaph insisted I just yank him off” The man shrugged, light chuckle resonating from his throat. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t threaten him a wee bit.”

 

The man’s comforting eyes and open demeanor was highly unusual behavior for a _knight_ of all things. He stumbled for words. “If you do not mind my inquiry, what is your name?”

 

The man beamed, toothy grin crinkling the skin around his honeyed eyes. “My name is Peadar. Originally, I come from An Eaglais Bhreac- um, Falkirk? Aye, I think that’s the English name for it.” He chuckled, “that’s why I sound like this, couldn’t stop if I tried.”

 

“Falkirk… Is that in Scotland?” Patrick said, cursing himself for stumbling over his words.. He was seldom short of thought, but for some unknown reason, this Scotsman had an unforeseen effect on his composure.

 

“Aye, it is.” Peadar nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m surprised you knew. These folk usually don’t know about the savage lands of the north.”

 

“I do not believe that to be true,” he cut in, perturbed that the man would assume his obliviousness. “I hardly know anything about your home, so why would I have prejudices against it, Peadar?”

 

Peadar blinked and clenched his jaw as if he was snapping out of a deep trance. “My apologies, it has been an exhausting trip.” He scratched idly at the back of his neck, then glanced up once again with that childish grin. “Your pronunciation of my name’s funny.”

 

“Not this dilemma again,” Patrick huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Either instruct me how to say it properly or give me an alternative. I already went through enough of this with your Welsh friend.”

 

The Scotsman went silent for a moment. Something shifted in those whiskey eyes- a wistful glimmer perhaps. “Pete- you can call me Pete.”

 

“Not Peter?” he jested. “I am certain the monks would appreciate that.”

 

Pete snorted, shifting his chainmail armor idly with a hooked thumb. “Aye, I’m certain they’d praise me for my piety- but no. I like to keep true to my heritage. The only other translation would be… Patrick, I think.”

 

A stunned noise escaped his throat before he could contain it. He desperately wanted to hear Pete say his name while actually meaning him, and whether it was seeking reciprocation of attraction or simply validation, it terrified him. God above, why must he be so complicated?

 

Pete motioned for him to take a seat at the table again. Joe had also retaken his place and was pouring the drink of the man from earlier into his own mug. The Scotsman meticulously adjusted his weapons as he sat down; questions as to why he was fully armed at a social gathering burned Patrick’s lips.

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Pete,” he said as he stepped over the bench and sat, hands wringing under the table. “As it happens to be... my name is Patrick.”

 

“What a coincidence. D’you come from Èirinn?” the Scotsman inquired. He was referring to what Patrick believed to be Andrew’s homeland.

 

“No, I do not. My family simply wanted to pay respects to our extended family in Ireland.” The lies flowed freely from his mouth; he was cumbered with guilt. Sure, Patrick was secretive, but he was no liar. “People who know of my name before I meet them are often shocked by my accent. Although, I will confess it is more amusing than irking.”

 

Something mischievous twinkled in Pete’s eyes. “Just between you and me, you have a lovely voice. Anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing it should be jealous.”

 

“Oh, hush,” Patrick said, ears tinting pink. “Your flattery will not sway me.”

 

“Well, I’m not trying hard enough, then,” Pete chuckled, briefly winking, then turning back toward Joe.

 

The raging flush already going in Patrick’s ears spread to his cheeks and neck. This was why he always dwelled in his quarters. Social events were not one of his strengths. Women were not meant to fraternize, anyway, but as a royal he was expected to have a certain level of charm.

 

Safe to say, he did not have charm.

 

His nerves had never been more tightly wound. He was not scared of being discovered - he had no reason to suspect he would be - but rather he felt an emotion unfamiliar to him. It resembled the brief palpitations of the heart he experienced in his youth whenever that dashing stable boy waved his way- but this was magnified to a refined point. It was direct. The many physical signs of attraction were all there; his palms were coated in a thin layer of moisture and his skin was dotted with goosebumps he could not quell.

 

“Do you, uh, perhaps want to go for a walk?” he asked, smoothing the fabric of his trousers.

 

The man’s eyebrows raised. Patrick’s heart stuttered apprehensively in his chest. Internally, he vehemently chastised himself for being so forward, but then Pete nodded, the visible tension in his shoulders lessening. “I would love to.”

 

Joe was very much occupied with his growing collection of beer, but Patrick still felt an obligation to bid him farewell. His reasoning behind it was a concoction of good manners and gratitude for the man’s loyalty and altruism.

 

Pete raised an eyebrow then followed his gaze to the Welshman. He glanced back, waiting for some sort of signal.

 

“I beg your pardon, Joe,” Patrick said. “Pete and I are going to explore the palace grounds. Will you be alright here on your own?”

 

The man looked up from his drink and sat in silence for a moment. His eyes darted back and forth, mouth moving around words, likely attempting to translate. “Uh, go on! Cael- have fun.”

 

He leaned close to Patrick, pointed toward Pete, then whispered, “Rwy'n credu ei fod yn hoffi chi.”

 

 _I_ _think_ _he_ _likes_ _you_.

 

Patrick choked. For a moment he thought the other man had heard, but it seemed like Pete was oblivious to the statement, even if he had overheard it.

 

Joe must have known Pete did not speak a lick of Welsh. How clever.

 

The Scotsman was waiting patiently with his hands folded in his lap. With a shared mischievous grin and a nod toward the door, the two bounded out, bumping into each other and laughing at the chaos around them under their breaths. There were no bombastic boasts nor punctilious exchanges; any words spoken between them were earnest or playful.

 

The night air was refreshing and crisp, washing over his shoulders and brushing over the back of his neck. The sweat from his time in the stuffy hall cooled on his skin. The summer heat lingered in the soil, bled into his shoes and warmed his clothes.

 

Travelers and curious wanderers alike gathered in the palace grounds, making lazy conversation and sipping wine glasses more expensive than their life earnings. The members of the lower class stared at the lavish beverages as if they were deathly potions. Young children sneaked sips of wine from discarded glasses and darting away into the rose bushes. He opened his mouth to caution them to be careful around the thorns, but clamped it shut upon his realization of how… _maternal_ that would appear.

 

Pete was strolling without a care, thoughtful eyes raking in the people and castle around him, hands clasped behind his back. The moonlight bounced off his oddly amber irises, and Patrick caught himself staring. Pete’s face was set in an expression of controlled neutrality, but even he could pick out the quiet contentment under the natural stern set of his mouth.

 

For reasons unbeknownst to him, every time they locked eyes, they both hurriedly turned away, taking up fascinating interest in the ground. He rushed to blame the unfamiliarity they had with each other, but he pondered if it was something deeper.

 

“Tell me about where you are from,” Patrick prompted, seeking to break the palpable tension between them. “A Scotsman in the army of Britain is highly unusual. The Kingdom of Alba is normally removed from English affairs.”

 

“Aye.” He nodded. “I see you’re a man who knows his history.” Pete’s tone was light but something was off. His shuttered eyes told a different story.

 

The man drew in a hollow breath and flexed his jaw. He began speaking in the softest voice imaginable for such a resolute man. “I grew up a normal lad. My father was a farmer. He was a solemn man, probably said ten words to me my entire life. It never bothered me much. And my mother took care of my siblings and I.”

 

His gaze was far away, trapped in the overwhelming nostalgia of memory, words were sweet and wistful, chasing something buried and lost long ago.

 

“I didn’t have many responsibilities besides working on the farm and doing chores. It really wasn’t much but I still complained about everything. I was a twat. Never grateful for anyone or anything. It drove my parents mad but they didn’t have the time to reel me in. Sometimes I wish I could go back and apologize to them.

 

“My brother and I spent most of our time in the woods pretending to be great warriors or adventurers on a quest. We used sticks for swords and broken baskets as helmets. We always battled for the fate of the world or something like that.”

 

The melancholic tone in his voice juxtapositioned the carefree tale he was telling, as strange as laughter on a battlefield. His heart was thrumming apprehensively. Pete fell into silence, expression troubled.

 

“Well, that sounds very righteous.” Patrick offered, trying his utmost to ease the tension once more. “I think your childhood self would be quite pleased with whom you have become.”

 

“Aye, maybe so,” Pete said, not seeming convinced. “Do you want to hear more? I feel like I’m boring you.”

 

“Why, yes, of course.” He nodded assuredly, folding his hands together behind his back. “Please do go on.”

 

“If you say so.” Pete cleared his throat, rubbing at it absently. “The British invasion of Scotland changed everything for us. Everyone started getting scared. Families locked their doors and every shop was abandoned. We were a small town with no army to protect us- it didn’t help that we were close to the border. It was only a matter of time until we got caught in the crossfire. But... my family kept insisting we were safe. They were convinced there was no way something bad could happen. If only they’d listened to me-”

 

Pete cut off, lips working while he swallowed a sob. Patrick did not know what to do. In Northumbria, people did not carry these kinds of conversations. Stopping to greet a stranger was rare at best and opening up to anyone besides your most trusted family was seen as foolish. Friendships were made for their power and influence, not emotional connection. Even Patrick and Megan’s relationship was almost always cold and distant.

 

“I-If I may ask,” Patrick asked slowly, “why are you telling me all of this? I appreciate your candor, but it is unexpected.”

 

The man went silent for a moment. His amber eyes flickered around the courtyard, settling on something on the horizon. Pete reached up with his index finger and lightly tapped his temple. “Something in your eyes. They’re kind. And they told me that I could trust you. I’ve been running from myself and everyone else... for so many years. Maybe it’s about time I stop.”

  
  
“We all seek peace in some shape or form. I think your battle is no longer external.” He paused. “It is strange,” Patrick admitted, words hushed and quick, “but I trust you too- even though we have barely met. We have very little in common. You are a stranger to these lands, while they are all I have ever known. And your home seems to be as absent in your life as it is in mine. I do not understand this- this connection of ours.”

  
  
“I never praised the Lord like one of those groveling monks, but I suppose I should thank Him for bringing me to you.”

  
  
They paused at the drawbridge, hands brushing just so, the gentle trickling of the moat accenting the distant sound of laughing and conversation.

  
  
Pete’s eyes shone golden in the moonlight. They were the most soothing sight he had ever laid witness to. Patrick’s past was a never-ending road of secrecy and trepidation. There was never time to find solace in anything. Or anyone.

  
  
He wanted to confess the deepest mysteries within his being, to spill out streams of confusion and pain into the waters below. But it was impossible. He could not. Pete was ill-prepared to face _that_ beast.

  
  
He inhaled to build up his breath and his courage. “Could I perhaps bring you somewhere?”

 

Pete blinked. “Of course you can.”

 

  
Pete reached out and took his hand for a startling moment, lightly squeezed, then dropped it. Patrick gasped and pulled his hand back. What was that?

 

He frantically looked around to make sure nobody had seen them. To their good fortune, everyone else in the surrounding area was preoccupied with getting drunk or making acquaintances. His scolding gaze did nothing except make the Scotsman let out a braying laugh and duck his head.

  
  
Once Patrick composed himself, he haphazardly adjusted his cloak and stepped forward across the drawbridge.

  
  
Heavy footsteps followed behind him, weighed down by armor and weapons he suspected were only present because they provided a some semblance of security in a foreign land. Then again, it seemed like Pete had not had a home in many years.

  
  
He followed the rocky road for a couple minutes, then abruptly turned into an overgrown path he had not traveled with anyone else since Andrew. There were thorny bushes extending their arms into the path, threatening any who dared come near. Birds nested in the trees above, singing their last song of the day.

  
  
The castle grounds in the distance were hidden by layers of nature and life. As a boy he liked to pretended it really did disappear, that the forest transported him to a world where his life was not weighed down by reality.

 

  
His companion did not ask any questions, instead leaving him to revel in memory. It was appreciated. This was a part of him he did not give away without heavy consideration. Trust required joint effort, so this was his.

  
  
They entered the small glade, slowly pushing through the weeping willow’s long leaf strains. The tree was so ancient and vast, it was large enough to encompass the entire clearing. The miniature creek that ran underneath the tree had thick roots looping over and under it, practically cradling the water.

  
  
“Woah,” Pete breathed, hesitantly moving forward and taking care not to step in the web of flowing water. “This is... beautiful, Patrick.”

  
  
He hummed, trying his best not to let his mind wander into the endless cycle of reminiscence it tended to. His focus needed to be on the intriguing man who had somehow won his trust enough to bring him to this special place.

  
  
They sat down on the forest floor, leaning against the broad trunk of the willow. The small space between their shoulders was palpable with tension. His gaze locked on the other man’s hands, as if any moment Pete might unexpectedly reach out for his again.

 

  
“I suppose you deserve answers,” Patrick gestured to the willow tree and surrounding area, “about all of this. You did follow a man you know nothing about into the forest, which means you are either foolish or certain about my character.”

  
  
“I think it’s both, to be honest,” Pete lightly chuckled, staring up into the sky.

 

  
“There is much I need to tell you before the events of tomorrow’” Patrick fiddled with a piece of bark. “But first and foremost, you must know that,” he held his breath, “I am not a nobleman.”

  
  
“Then who-“

  
  
“I am the prince of Northumbria. And I shall be married off tomorrow, against my will, to whichever suitor is victorious.”

 

Pete’s eyebrows raised and he blinked rapidly. “The prince? But ah thought- oh. _Oh_.”

 

“Yes.” Patrick winced.

 

“I think I understand.” His Adam’s apple protruded as he swallowed. “Um, thank you for telling me.”

  
_Thank_ _you?_ How odd. It was not the expected response, but it was welcomed. Pete reacted like Patrick’s secret was something to be cherished, not swept aside or beaten until it disappeared. It was a refreshing change of precedent.

 

  
Patrick threaded their hands together again, the shadows under the tree almost hiding their taboo. The gentle contact slowed his racing heart and lessened the intense shaking throughout his body.

  
  
“After tomorrow, where will you go?” he whispered, terrified of the possible answers. “Back to the war?”

 

  
“No.” Pete shook his head. “This is my last stop. When I was taken from my village, the deal was I would serve ten years as a knight. Eadred didn’t kill me because he saw me as a potential weapon. He saw what I can do firsthand. After my family was slaughtered, I went through fifteen men before the warriors could stop me. Even then, I was thrashing around to all hell. I had never been so angry before. I could feel it in my bones and flowing through my veins, like a deadly poison.

 

“Eventually, when the two men stopped me and forced me down to the ground, a third held a sword at my throat. I knew I was going to die. But then Eadred got off his horse and came over to me. The warriors explained what’d happened. The king looked down his nose, then gave me a choice: death or servitude.” He grit his teeth. “I was not ready to face my fate after the evil I’d just done- I’d go straight to the depths of Hell. So I said yes.”

 

“That is why you are fighting this crusade? Because of a deal you made ten years ago?”

 

“Yes.” Pete frowned. “Maybe it was the coward’s way out, but I lived, so it was the right decision. What’s the point of honor if you die? This is it for me- the last journey. I’m finally going back to Scotland.”

 

  
“I-,” Patrick exhaled, closing his eyes, “I do not know where I am going. I feel so much fear; it is petrifying. For all I know, a cruel and unsympathetic husband awaits me. I tried to convince him otherwise, but my father was inflexible. He is selling me off like merchandise. I feel like a pawn in a game I never asked to play.”

  
  
Pete opened his mouth, obviously considering saying something. His eyes darted left and right quickly then frantically focused back on Patrick. “You should come with me. We can- we can take my horse and leave and never look back. They’ll never be able to find you in Alba- especially now that peace has been made. You could be happy. And free.”

  
  
“I cannot,” Patrick winced. “Eventually I will have to marry, whether I want to or not. If I do not do it now, it will be with someone far worse, I just know it. I have an obligation to my family. Although I do not care for my father, it was my mother’s dying wish that I find love. Running away from this would break my last promise to her.”

 

  
“This betrothal will not be love. It- it can’t be,” Pete said with force. His voice broke over the word love. “There must be some way. What if-“

 

  
“Why do you care?” he asked, blinking away the tears swimming in his eyes. “My fate does not affect you. You owe me no sympathies.”

 

  
Pete frowned, eyes locked on their joined hands. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m infatuated with you. You deserve better than the way you’ve been treated. I can’t let another innocent person be hurt by political squabbles. They just end in more suffering. War isn’t something I’d wish upon anyone, even if it’s inside.”

  
  
“So, am I pet project to you?” Patrick snapped. “Something to make up for the loss of your family?!”

  
  
“Of course not!” Pete spluttered with indignation.

 

  
“Then what, Pete?!”

 

  
  
“You _understand_ me,” he cried, expression pained. “I _know_ you do. In all my years, no one ever has. People I’ve drawn blood for know less about me.” He rubbed his beard. His hands were trembling. “I want to spend as much time together as possible. You make me forget some things I want to leave behind- the cruel and torturous things I’ve done. When you look at me, all that’s in your eyes is- is appreciation. Not hatred or fear. I think- well, I know that I could love you one day.” 

 

  
“Oh.” His eyes widened. He didn’t know how to process any of this. The explanation was packed with truth and emotion. It mirrored every sentiment he knew was lodged down in his heart, as well.

  
  
“Dàirich,” Pete murmured. Patrick assumed it was a curse. “I’m sorry. That was horribly inappropriate. I hope that didn’t, uh, change the way you see me.”

  
  
“It did but-“

 

  
“God above, I’m sorry I-“

  
  
“Hush,” Patrick ordered. The man’s mouth snapped shut, eyes wide. “You did not listen. What I meant to say is it did modify how I view you, but that does not particularly mean it was in a negatively.”

  
“Oh?” Pete whispered, unwittingly leaning closer.

 

He cradled Pete’s rough jaw with his free hand and pulled him down into a smooth kiss, lips clashing. The man sighed and pressed forward; he brung their clasped hands up between them and moved his thumb in slow circles across the surface of Patrick’s hand.

 

Unbeknownst to Pete, this was his first kiss. Most people wait until marriage, but he cared little for custom.

 

Pete was surprisingly lax, letting Patrick push forward and initiate movement. He was huffing softly and melting into the press of Patrick’s lips. The tension between them had disappeared, replaced by a warm and mutual harmony. Every movement was mirrored or welcomed, a perfect balance.

 

When he pulled back, Pete’s eyes were deeper than deep. They stared into his very being.

 

It became perfectly clear that the man never planned on letting him go. Somewhere amongst their whispered words of appreciation, Pete quelled any doubts in his mind. He was getting out of here.

 

“We should return to the castle,” Patrick murmured. He scratched the back of his neck.

 

Pete was silent, but words were not necessary to decipher his silent determination. The inner workings of his mind had already taken off, plotting and planning. What he truly planned to do, this Patrick did not know, but his faith in Pete strengthened by the minute.

 

The trek back to the castle was eerily quiet, but the silence was filled with unspoken affection. Love, in its mysterious glory, was always something that transcended words.

 

When they reached the courtyard once more, Pete pulled him into a hug. “Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away.”

 

“And you said you are not religious,” Patrick laughed wetly, burying his face in Pete’s shoulder. “If that was not the Song of Solomon, you have a lovely way with words.”

 

“Call me a romantic, then.” Pete’s smile was shaky, but his eyes were churning with conviction. “I’ll see you in the morning, mo aingeal.”

 

“It shall be so,” Patrick said. “Goodnight, I hope you can sleep peacefully this night.”

 

“Deagh oidhche.”

 

Two souls never meant to meet, but borne of kindred flame. It would be a recipe for disaster or harmony; only fate could decide.

 

They parted. In spirit, they had never been closer.

 


End file.
